


A Farewell Party for Bad Caegars

by jadebloods



Series: Ladystuck 2013 [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Background Relationships, Blood, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Ladystuck 2013, Needles, Quadrant Confusion, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I never thought I'd see you again," you say at the same time she says, "Lucky seeing you here, huh?"</p>
<p>You're both lying, of course. Of all the stitch shops, in all the colonies, in all the universe, she just had to show up at yours. This is no simple case of <i>any port in a storm</i>. Vriska has always made her own luck.</p>
<p>And as for you, well. Bad caegars have a funny way of turning up, don't they? You haven't forgotten that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Farewell Party for Bad Caegars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [northernvehemence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernvehemence/gifts).



> Best friends  
> [Ex-friends](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1g4NqlGn95A) till the end  
> Better off as lovers  
> And not the other way around  
> \-- Troll Aristotle (or was it Troll Plato?)

This isn't the first time you've opened your front door to find Vriska bleeding through her coat sleeve, dripping hot cobalt in a tell-tale trail down the street or hallway or sidewalk behind her. It's just the most recent time.

"I never thought I'd see you again," you say at the same time she says, "Lucky seeing you here, huh?"

You're both lying, of course. Of all the stitch shops, in all the colonies, in all the universe, she just had to show up at yours. This is no simple case of _any port in a storm_. Vriska has always made her own luck.

And as for you, well. Bad caegars have a funny way of turning up, don't they? You haven't forgotten that.

In your rush to speak over each other at first, you find that you have little to say to each other immediately following, so you just stare silently across the threshold for a moment. She continues to drip on the concrete porch, standing tall and projecting violent confidence in the twilight as the sun dies over her left shoulder, in spite of the amount of pain she must be in. You attempt to wrestle your blood pusher into submission after its initial spike upon seeing her without warning, so instead of looking at her face you survey the damage to her arm. A hole rimmed with dark blue sits high and far to the right on her chest, probably a stab wound and not a bullet hole. It's within your capacity to sew up, since you won't have to go digging for treasure under her skin.

You really hate gunshot wounds.

The moment passes, and you step to the side, allowing her to push past you and into your tailor shop. You rationalize this decision by telling yourself that it wouldn't do to have any of the humans in the neighborhood see a blueblood bleeding out all over your doorstep. That kind of thing makes them irrationally skittish, especially the ones who are still uninitiated to the finer points of troll society, and you really don't want the property value to start going down. Not for _her_. You flip the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED.

"Fine," you mutter more to yourself than anything else, leading the way to the back of the shop and then up to the apartment you share with Rose on the second floor. "Try not to bleed too much on the merchandise."

She claps one leather-gloved hand over the hole, clenching her jaw but following you silently until you make it upstairs to the small kitchen. Once there, she doesn't wait for an invitation to snoop around while you fetch bandages and the right kind of needle. She strides aimlessly around the room, her eye scanning the personal memorabilia and filing away information to use against you later, no doubt. You find a hooked needle, some thread, and a bottle of antiseptic and carry them out to the kitchen, arranging them on the counter top under the track lighting.

You point to a counter stool, indicating for her to sit, and you turn on a single bulb, angling it toward the chair. "Take off your jacket."

"Jeez, Bossyfangs," she flops down onto the stool, shrugging gingerly out of the dragonhide coat. Despite your better judgement, you reach out to help her slide it off of the injured arm, revealing a bare, pointy shoulder and a sleeveless white shirt stained with a disarming amount of cerulean. "I gotta admit, I never expected you to shack up with a human. That one took me by surprise, so good job."

You press your lips together, dousing a cloth with alcohol and pressing it tightly to the wound. She hisses and whimpers lowly, her back straightening and her teeth bared. You relish this response for a moment before saying anything. "Did you come here to criticize my life choices or to receive my assistance? Because contrary to popular aphorisms regarding certain human confectionery treats, you can't actually have it both ways."

Vriska shrugs nonchalantly. She also winces, presumably from the pain of moving her injured shoulder during her careful display of indifference. "I was nearby and figured we could both get something we want out of a little unscheduled visit."

Now that you can see the wound clearly, it isn't as bad as it first looked. All the blood was startling, but it's a fairly clean cut. You rip through the strap of her tank top with your fingernail and fold the shirt away from the cut, securing it to her chest with fabric tape so that it doesn't fall away and expose her rumblesphere. "Oh?" you ask, sticking the needle between your teeth in concentration as you wipe away the last of the blood and grime.

"Yeah. You know, I get to be sewn up in _relative_ peace--I say relative because you might be meddlesome, but I can at _least_ trust you not to rat me out for the bounty--and you get to see me, of course."

"Beholding a hot mess is its own reward," you mumble around the needle. "That better be the sentiment you intended to convey with that statement."

"That's exactly what I mean, obviously." She scratches at the tape while you blot away the last of the alcohol and begin unspooling thread. "This shit itches," she says, ripping it off and letting the strap fall. Her nipple stands hard and blue in the harsh light, almost defiant, if you could allow yourself to anthropomorphize a goddamn rumblesphere, even if only in your own imagination. "Although now that I'm here, it seems more likely that you just want to flaunt your new human in my stupid face. Isn't that right?"

"Rose is my _matesprit_ \--" you say, missing the eye of the needle several times with your thread.

She looks you dead in the eyes, a gesture you can't return. "How's that working out for you? She fill you up with all those hopes and dreams she keeps between her legs?"

You slide the thread home and grab her shoulder, pressing down much harder with your thumb than is really necessary. Her lips tremble with the effort of keeping in another whimper, but she manages to keep it suppressed. "What she does or does not fill me up with isn't any of your business anymore." The first stitch is gratifying as you pierce her skin with the needle, pulling the thread between flaps of grey flesh. 

"Humans are just so _simple_. I mean 88% of the time you're either fucking them or getting fucked, but almost never both. Where's the fun in that? Where's the challenge?"

"That's an awfully myopic view of the complex and varied expressions of human sexuality. Weren't you dating a human a few sweeps ago?" You grit your teeth and penetrate her again, crossing the thread over.

"Past tense. It didn't work out. I dunno, lately I've been getting the feeling that I've been selling myself short because I keep coming back to the same type of--"

"Then you should already be informed that there are _ways_ \--"

"Ways of forgetting that it ain't hot flesh and blood inside of you? No fucking thanks."

Your hand is trembling with such vigor that you drop the needle, letting it dangle from her shoulder and settle against the barely there curve of her exposed rumblesphere. You don't want to let her know that she's getting to you, but she would have figured it out one way or another. If you hadn't dropped the needle, she would've caught on when you accidentally pierced her collarbone. Or her nipple. The urge to cover your face with your hands is overwhelming, but you somehow manage to fight it off and look her in the eye. "Would you please quit stomping on the shrubbery and just tell me why you're here? What is it that you want from me?"

"Wow, I kinda figured that would be obvious to such a bright bulb like you." She turns her head toward you, letting her long hair cascade over the uninjured shoulder and her bangs to flop over her good eye. "My mission is two-fold here." She glances down at the needle dangling next to her bare nipple. "Get stitched up--" She looks back up at you. "--and see if you're still too cluckbeastshit to advance instead of abscond. Those are pretty much my only two reasons for ever showing up at your hive. I might have to stop, though. Doing this over and _over_ is starting to get boring."

You frown, forcing your hands to stop shaking enough to pick up the needle. It has to be carefully plucked, so that your fingers don't graze the erect blue patch of skin. Likewise, your breathing has to be carefully monitored while you silently turn over her choice of words. _Advance or a8scond_. You take a measured inhale and then pinch her skin together on each side of the wound, piercing her again to resume sewing it shut.

She watches your every move, but neither of you speak again until the stitching is complete. The only sounds in the dark room are your careful breaths and her tapping restlessly on the counter with her other hand. When the thread is at last knotted and cut, you take a step back. "Rose could return from her appointment at any moment."

Vriska tests her stitches, shrugging her shoulders and then rotating her arm. "So what? You haven't wanted me in that quadrant since we were six."

Your fingers pinch the needle tightly, wanting to dig it into her throat, or maybe to cut out her blasphemous tongue. "And what quadrant do you want me in?" Her eyes flick up to yours, but she doesn't say anything in response. Her silence tells you pretty much everything you need to know. "That's about what I expected," you grumble, turning away from her to set down the needle.

While your back is turned, she stands up and moves in, turning you around and grabbing your shoulders. She's taller than you, albeit barely so, and she's so close that her dirty hair grazes your cheek. "Quadrants aren't the only way to motivate a girl, you dumb little seamstress. For someone so smart you can be soooooooo dumb. I always try to remember that whenever I feel silly or stupid. At least I don't pull the silk over my _own_ eyes like Fussyfangs does. At least I have the shameglobes to face the truth."

You grit your teeth and stare up at her, your blood pusher flopping over in black agony. You aren't even sure if you hate her like that or if you actually want to kill her for being too cruel to let you forget her and live in peace.

She leans in, resting her forehead against yours and making you buzz with the moment's potential. "I never stopped pitying you, you know," she whispers.

"I'm not interested in your pity," you manage to croak.

"What about my bulge, then? Are you interested in that?" She drops her hands from your shoulders to your hips, pulling your waist toward her so that your skirt is pressed against her jeans. You can easily feel the ridge of her unsheathed bulge against your leg through the few thin layers of denim and cotton. The two of you have never been so close, physically speaking. All you'd have to do is tilt your head and it would be a done deal, but your blood is pounding in your hear ducts and your hands are shaking again. Your whole body is vibrating, actually, because you've spent most of your life waiting for a moment like this to happen, and now that it's here you don't know what to do with yourself.

You're frozen, unable to advance _or_ abscond. You feel pathetic and angry and hopelessly aroused, and at the back of your head an invisible clock is ticking down to the moment when the window of opportunity will close.

She laughs, more like a quiet chuckle deep in her chest, little more than an exhale. "Man, I just can't catch a break. No matter what, I always have to make people's moves for th--"

"Shut up," you whisper, lifting your face and pressing your lips to her mouth before she can say something even more self-aggrandizing. For all her cocky bullshit, she's something of a tentative kisser, waiting for you to pull back and part your lips a bit before pressing in with her tongue to feel the tips of your fangs. You bite her bottom lip softly, feeling out how much you can get away with before she tries to pull back, and then pressing it a bit further.

"Ow," she mumbles, sliding her hands behind you to grab your ass and then lift you up onto the counter. You part your legs and she lifts your skirt, pressing her hands against your thighs just below the lining of your underwear. Half of your ass is dangling off the edge of the counter, so you wrap your legs behind her back and she pushes in close, her zipper snug against your nook through your panties.

Her bulge shifts against you, and you moan into her, opening your mouth and legs wider. You want to be stuffed full of her, just this once, so that afterward you can be rid of her for good. You want to be stretched to bursting and then topped off so that you can absorb all of it, all of the frustration and second-guessing and longing, and then release it into the universe like funeral ashes. A farewell party for bad caegars.

You slice through her other tank top strap, pushing the remnants of the shirt down to her waist and digging your fingers into her back, dragging them across the raised scars you can feel there. Not just her grub scars, but short, choppy ones in random patterns--hazards of her trade, many of which you've sewn up yourself. You want to re-open them all so that she can feel the weight of your care, all at once instead of in bits and pieces over the years. You want her to bleed out on the tile floor until she has nothing left to torment you with, so she can feel what it's like to have nothing left to give.

You want a lot of things, so you try to convey this to her through your kiss, pulling her chest against yours and drawing her tongue into your mouth. She grabs clumsily at your underwear, and you brace your arms around her neck and roll your hips forward, lifting them off the counter just long enough for her to slide them down your thighs. She breaks the kiss, backing away to pull your panties down your legs and unzip her jeans, which she doesn't take off but just pushes down her hips enough to free her bulge. 

Her bulge is dark blue, darker than her blood and almost black at the base. It curls up against her stomach, brushing against the tatters of her ruined shirt, and you've never ached so much to have something inside of you as you do right now.

She hesitates, an uncharacteristic moment of doubt, which gives you enough time to survey the rest of her. Her frame is lean but muscled, her abdominal muscles barely visible under the skin of her stomach, and her rumblespheres are nothing more than slight little hills on her chest. She's nothing, really--barely there, barely anything. Her face is plain and empty, barely pretty. You feel a surge of pity so unexpected and so overwhelming that it sticks in your throat, lodging there and forcing you to swallow several times.

"Don't tell me you're going to abscond," you manage to say.

She snarls, flashing one of her fangs at you for a brief moment before moving back in wordlessly, biting your shoulder and knotting her fists in your skirt. You guide her bulge to your nook, and it pushes into you. It drags against your skin at first, making you feel over-full, but after a moment the friction lessens and you feel pleasantly, achingly stretched open. Your mouth falls open next to her ear, and her hair gets into your mouth, curling around your tongue and your teeth, but it's hard to care about that when her bulge is writhing so deep inside you.

Your labored breath breaks into a moan when she bites down hard on the fleshy part of your shoulder, making you cry out. Satisfied, she lifts her face to yours, smearing blue lipstick on the ridge of your cheekbone and wrapping her arms low around your torso, locking your hips together. She rocks slowly into you, not quite thrusting but just varying the angle steadily and regularly, pushing her bulge against the front wall of your nook, where it throbs and coils in waves, turning over and exploring and spreading you wide open.

It is deliriously exquisite and frustrating. You squeeze your eyes shut, wishing you could grab your own bulge, which is trapped between your stomachs. It curls futilely against the folds of your skirt, not getting the tight friction you need to really bring you close, so you languish in this torturous plateau for minutes on end. It seems befitting of the situation.

Eventually she releases her tight hold on your hips, and you lie back on the counter, opening up the position so you can have room to touch yourself. She pushes your shirt up over your rumblespheres, and you hike up your skirt, grabbing your bulge and squeezing it roughly, letting it twine through your fingers. Her expression is unreadable as she stares down at your chest, rubbing her thumbs back and forth across your nipples. It makes them ache, a ghost of the ache in your nook, like some kind of sexual ventriloquism, and the effect is multiplicative. 

You whine, you whimper, you rock yourself onto her again and again, making a fool of yourself while she watches you lose it. Her mouth hangs open, her own hair falling into it as she sways forward and back, driving you up and down the counter top with an expression that you can now, through a thick haze of emotion and sensation, read as possessive. You can't handle the force of her stare; it makes something inside you bottom out, opening so wide that all of your guts threaten to spill out on the tile floor.

It takes you a second to realize that it's not your guts--it's your orgasm. "I--I need a bucket," you stutter.

"No you don't," she says quietly, and she's right. Bucket or not, you come anyway, turning your head to the side and curling your shoulders forward with the force of it. Your come slides over your fingers and down your forearm, seeping into your skirt and onto the counter between your legs. You hear it drip slowly into the floor, announcing itself with tiny little _splat_ noises as the last waves of it pass through you, and all you can do is breathe and stare at the single track light on the ceiling that illuminates neither of you, just the chair off to the side.

Vriska pulls out of you gently, a slick sliding motion that tugs through your insides like a thread until you're empty. You prop yourself up into a sitting position, staring at the mess you've made of yourself and the counter. It isn't until you hear her groan and the splatter of fluid rushing against metal that you realize she's stepped over to the sink to finish herself, her back turned to you so you can't see her face.

Of course she would rob you of that intimacy, of that satisfaction. _Of course_. You bite your lips together and slide off the counter, your knees so unsteady that you almost fall down. She runs the tap, washing the evidence down the drain while you step out of your skirt and use it to sop up the remaining mess from the counter and the floor.

At the end of it, you make quite a pair, standing on opposite sides of the kitchen and staring at each other wordlessly. Her with her ripped, bloodied shirt thrown in the trash, exposing her chest in the starlight, and you, bottomless and holding your soiled skirt in one hand, trying to decide if you should cry or punch her. The time for both of those things has passed.

You should offer to give her a shirt, but you don't. You push past her and stuff your skirt into the sink, filling it up with cold water. Maybe you can salvage the garment, maybe not. You don't dare to hope that you can do the same for your dignity.

When you turn back to her, she's zipped her jeans back up and covered herself with her dragonhide jacket. You can barely tell that anything just happened, whereas you don't need to look in a mirror to know that you're a pitiful mess.

"I need to cover myself," you say at the same time she says, "My associates are going to be looking for me." You can hear the eight in how she says it. Associ8s. Some things never change.

"Fine," you mutter, grabbing some shorts from a pile of dirty laundry in the hallway and leading the way downstairs. You show her the back door, but before leaving she grabs your wrist with her good arm, jerking you around to face her. Her eye is weary and tired, and she looks like she wants to say something but her ego won't let her. Or maybe you're being too harsh. Maybe it's her conscience that won't let her.

You laugh inwardly. After all, you have no evidence that she even has a conscience.

She looks down at your lips and brings her other hand up to run her thumb across your bottom lip, smearing the remnants of your jade lipstick onto the pad of it. She kisses the pad of her thumb and then releases you. "See you around, Mussyfangs," she whispers before slipping out the door and into the night.

You shut the door behind her and lock it. For a moment, you can't breathe. You turn around and lean against the door, sliding down it slowly until you're sitting on the floor with your elbows resting on your knees and your head in your hands. Your breath comes in huge, rasping gasps, tearless sobs of exhaustion. You have no doubt that she's right--you will be seeing her again.

You might be able to pass the buck for a little while, but bad caegars _always_ turn back up in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> A Ladystuck 2013 treat for northernvehemence, who really, _really_ likes vriskan.
> 
> I feel like I should apologize for how fraught this porn is with torrid bullshit, but let's be real--I'm not going to do that.


End file.
